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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035717">You Know I Can't Get Enough Of…</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales'>NickelModelTales</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Celebrities, Clubbing, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, Porn With Plot, Romance, Seduction, Shameless Smut, Waiters &amp; Waitresses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:07:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A young cocktail waitress agrees to be hypnotized by a lecherous celebrity in the hopes of becoming his new girlfriend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Hate Monday Nights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sage_queen98/gifts">Sage_queen98</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am currently in the middle of a much bigger story when this little tale was suggested by a reader.  Suddenly possessed by inspiration, I faked sick at work to bang this opus out in an eight-hour sweat.  Don't tell my boss!</p><p>Also, all celebrities mentioned in this story are chosen out of admiration.  All lyrics are by Kat Graham, I don't own them, I'm just quoting them out of sheer love, please don't sue.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Los Angeles, 2017</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Its Monday night.  I hate Monday nights.</p><p>For one, the club is closed.  I don’t have work.  You’d think that not having to squeeze into my tiny cleavage-baring, butt-showing, tiny-waisted waitress outfit with the fishnet stockings and three inch heels would make me happy, and it does.  I hate that hooker’s getup.</p><p>But whadda I do on Monday nights?  Nothing.  Abs-a-fucking-lutely nothing.  Here I am, Meg Danvers, twenty-three years old, living in the coolest city in the world, with a million awesome things to do… and I’ll be home, sitting on my ass, watching stupid Netflix with my boyfriend.  I heard that the <span class="u">Teen Wolf</span> cast is having a season wrap party up in Burbank, you’d think we could crash that.  I mean, Mark works in entertainment, so he <strong><em>must</em></strong> know someone going to that party.  Right?</p><p>Feeling pissed, I sigh and check my phone.  Oh!  Here’s some good news.  My girl Kat Graham is dropping a new single today.  Momentarily pleased, I click through the links and soon I’m bobbing my head in time to her latest.</p><p>Kat sings:</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes people change, sometimes people don't</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes people live and last but I'm the kind that won't</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes it feels like sometimes we get in our own way</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But you really gotta know</em>
</p><p>Mmm…  Nice.</p><p>You gotta love Kat.  I’ll tell you this much:  She isn’t at home, sitting on her butt right now.  No, she’s at some exclusive mansion party, laughing and sipping champagne.  The cute boys are probably swarming about her, attentive to her every need and desire.  She could snap her fingers and they’d give her whatever she wanted.</p><p>A call comes in, interrupting Kat’s new song.</p><p>Ugh.  It’s Mark, my boyfriend.  Scowling, I pick up.</p><p>“<em>Hey, baby,</em>” he says, the same dopey way he always uses.</p><p>“Yo,” I reply.</p><p>“<em>I’m getting out of work now,</em>” he tells me.  “<em>Was wondering if I can pick you up something at <span class="u">Banake’s</span>?</em>”</p><p>See?  <strong><em>See??? </em></strong> <span class="u">Banake’s</span> is the subpar diner, just a few blocks away.  Stupid Mark didn’t even ask me what <strong><em>I’d</em></strong> like to do tonight.  He’s already assumed that we can get takeout.  That means we’re eating at home.  And <strong><em>that</em></strong> means we’re watching Netflix.  And <strong><em>THAT </em></strong>means my whole evening is over, already.  Goddamnit.</p><p><em>Don’t despair, Meg,</em> I tell myself.  <em>Maybe you can get Mark to change his mind.</em></p><p>“Listen,” I say hopefully, “I heard that <span class="u">Teen Wolf</span> is having their season wrap party tonight.  Maybe we could go to that…?”</p><p>Mark doesn’t hesitate.  “<em>Naw, I couldn’t get in.  I don’t know anyone on that show.</em>”</p><p>“Aw, c’mon, babe,” I coax.  “You gotta have <strong><em>some</em></strong> industry connection, right?”</p><p>“<em>Nope,</em>” says Mark, not even taking the time to think about it.  “<em>Listen, Meg, I’m bushed.  Its been a long day, you have no idea.  I just want <span class="u">Banake’s</span>.</em>”</p><p>And <em>voila</em>, my evening is over.  Two hours from now, I’ll be lying in bed with a paperback novel, trying to ignore Mark as he snores and farts.  My twenty-something years are so fucking boring.</p><p>I sigh, resigning myself to defeat.  “Fine,” I grumble.  “Get me a half grilled cheese with pickle?”</p><p>“<em>Got it,</em>” Mark acknowledges, and then he disconnects.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Kat Graham’s newest single resumes, but I’m suddenly not in the mood.  I pause the music, scowl, then set my phone down.  I slouch on the sofa.</p><p>Jesus, I’ve been dating Mark for three years now, and living with him for two.  Fuck!  Why did I tie myself to this loser?</p><p>I know why.  Mark and I met at a party (<em>how ironic!</em>), where I was trying to snag the attention of What-His-Face, that actor dude.  Ugh, why can’t I remember his name?  Anyway, I recognized Actor Dude from that shaving commercial he did, you know, the one where he’s out in the woods?  He’s barechested, and you can see his pecs and abs and biceps ‘cause he’s shirtless.  As the morning sun comes up, he’s lovingly shaving his face with those long, lingering strokes.  Mmm, so yummy.  The dude is even hotter in person.</p><p>Well, I was flirting with Shaving Boy like crazy, but there were three other women there, competing for him too.  I felt like I was on a sleazy dating show.  After throwing myself at him for an hour – and getting no-where – I was about to ditch the party.  But then Shaving Boy waved to a friend across the room.</p><p>“Yo, Mark!” he shouted.  “What’s haps, bro?”</p><p>That was how I met Mark.  It so happened that Shaving Boy was just cast in a new low-budget monster movie: <span class="u">Flying Shark Versus Mutant Scorpions</span>.  Mark was the screenwriter.</p><p>I was stunned!  I’d never met a writer before.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>One thing you should know about me…  Growing up in Iowa, I always wanted to be famous.  Like, <strong><em>really</em></strong> famous.</p><p>I remember being seven years old, and reading a teen magazine about Kirsten Dunst.  Yes, Kirsten Dunst, who is superfamous <strong><em>because why?</em></strong>  Because Spider-Man kept saving her skinny butt and she kissed him upside-down.  That’s all she did.  It seemed to me that if Kirsten could become famous for pretty much being a professional kissing hostage, I should be able to become famous too, right?</p><p>But the problem is… to get famous, first you have to have some kind of talent.  And what’re my talents?</p><p>Well…  I’m hot.  No, really, I’m a hottie.  I’m totally serious.  I’ve got the whole package: the platinum blonde hair, the C-cup, the bubble butt, long legs, tight little tummy, you name it.  I’m also really pretty, no lie.  When I do up the hair and the makeup, I can stop traffic.</p><p>So, there’s that.  But being hot isn’t enough.  Look at my girl Kat Graham, right?  She’s hot.  But she was also a dancer, then an actress, then took over her own TV show as a producer (or something), and <strong><em>now</em></strong> she’s the world’s most awesome singer.  You need a talent.</p><p>So while in high school, I started to wonder what my talent might be.  I couldn’t act in the school plays worth crap, and I couldn’t sing.  I can’t tell jokes.  I did cheerleading, so I guess I could dance… but those skanks in ballet class were horrible bitches to me when I looked into trying out.  So fuck them, and fuck ballet.</p><p>The only time I thought I might have discovered any talent was when my school brought a hypnosis guy to our mid-year Senior Party.  The guy asked for volunteers, and I went up with a bunch of my girlfriends.  I think I was secretly hoping that I could get hypnotized and then discover I was a megatalented opera singer, or something.</p><p>So anyway, the guy put us under, and it was just so…  I dunno, so lame and disappointing.  Have <strong><em>you</em></strong> ever been hypnotized?  I thought my brain would be zapped, and I would be this puppet in the dude’s hands, and suddenly he’d say, “<em>You are now a great singer!</em>” and I’d discover I could wail like Christina Aguilera.  That was my hope.</p><p>But you know what?  Getting hypnotized was so disappointing.  I was totally aware the whole time, even when I was supposedly in a deep hypnosis sleep, or whatever.  And when the hypnosis dude said, “<em>Ladies, when I snap my fingers, you are all booty-shaking dancers,</em>” sure, I jumped up and shook my hot little booty.  Because why not?  All the other chicks were doing it.  But, honestly, I could have walked off that stage at any time I chose to.  I wasn’t in the hypnotist’s power.</p><p>Anyhoo, hypnosis didn’t unlock some deep inner talent.  Goddamnit.</p><p>After high school, I moved to LA and I tried to get into modeling and acting.  The modeling and acting biz is absolutely brutal, let me tell you.  I went through a gazillion fruitless auditions, and where did I wind up?  As a Drink Girl… er, <strong><em>cocktail waitressing professional</em></strong>… at <span class="u">Skizzle</span>, one of LA’s weirder nightclubs.  My waitressing outfit and tips are always skimpy.</p><p>So you can imagine how exciting it was to meet Mark, a <strong><em>real</em></strong> <strong><em>fucking movie writer!</em></strong>  Man, he dreams up scenes and dialog, and the directors and producers and actors shoot it!  How cool is that?</p><p>“Its not like that at all,” Mark told me, that first night we met.  We were snuggling on a couch, each sipping beer.  “Naw, the producer gave me a plot outline, and I flesh it out.”</p><p>“Do you help cast the actors?” I asked, fascinated.</p><p>“Some,” shrugged Mark.  “More like, I offer notes.  Shit like, <em>‘The character of Jordan is a cheerleader, so make sure the actress playing her can do cheers.’</em>”</p><p>“I was a cheerleader,” I say quickly.</p><p>“I can see that,” Mark grinned.</p><p>I plied him with a hundred stupid questions, completely gaga for his life as a writer.  Even on a direct-to-cable stinkbomb like <span class="u">Flying Shark Versus Mutant Scorpions</span>, Mark was clearly a big man.  That very day, he’d rewritten the climactic scene so that Brax Mathews, the hero, gets his shirt ripped off <strong><em>before</em></strong> he fights the flying shark to save Courtney Dithers, the damsel-in-distress.</p><p>Mark seemed so confident, so intelligent, so self-assured.  I was way impressed.  It seemed like he was on his way to really great things.</p><p>I made sure to make out with him in the bathroom that night.  And I made sure he had my number.</p><p>In a month, we were dating, and then we were fucking, and after a year, we moved into a crappy starving-actor’s apartment together.  Mark didn’t mind that I served drinks in a stripper outfit six nights a week, which is rare for a guy.  He went on to write the scripts for <span class="u">Flying Shark Versus Mutant Scorpions Part 2: Sharkier and More Scorpions!</span> and then <span class="u">Zombie Wolves Alien Attack</span> and <span class="u">Mind Control Octopus</span> and <span class="u">Mummy Strippers From Toxic City</span>.  I was surprised that everything he did seemed to be Z-level crap, but who cared?  We were always being invited to cool parties.  I met so many actors who later became famous, you have no idea.</p><p>And then, a year ago… disaster.</p><p>“I can’t do these low-budget cable features anymore,” Mark told me wearily, one night after he was at the studio, very late.  “The pay sucks, and they work me to the bone.  And I just don’t care anymore.”</p><p>“Okay,” I said.  I wanted to be supportive.</p><p>“I’m thinking of making a career move,” Mark informed me.  “To write something I’ve always wanted to do.”</p><p>Alarm bells went off in my head.  I said, “…uh huh?”</p><p>Oblivious to my distress, Mark leaned forward.  “I just had lunch with Carol Mackenzie, the producer of <span class="u">Sparkler Ponies</span>,” he said.  “They’re looking for a new staff writer.  I could really do good work there.”</p><p>“<span class="u">Sparkler Ponies</span>,” I repeated.  “What the fuck is <span class="u">Sparkler Ponies</span>?”</p><p>“A kids’ show,” Mark told me proudly.  “Ages three to six.  Its about six ponies, all best friends, who use their magical color powers to-“</p><p>“A <strong><em>kids’</em></strong> show?” I interrupted.  Suddenly, my so-cool boyfriend didn’t appear so suave.</p><p>In the blink of an eye, everything changed.  Suddenly, Mark was working eight AM-to-five PM shifts, writing dialog like this:</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>BERRY-BOO:  Oh, no, Twinkletoes!  However will we get across the rainbow bridge now???</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>TWINKLETOES:  I know, Berry!  We’ll use our rainbow powers!</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>BERRY-BOO:  Yayyy!!!</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Overnight, we stopped getting invitations to Hollywood parties.  Mark slowed down, and started putting on weight.  And suddenly every Monday night, I’m home with him, eating <span class="u">Banake’s</span> takeout, and watching stupid Netflix.</p><p>I left Iowa for <strong><em>this?</em></strong></p><p>I click PLAY on my phone, but somehow even Kat Graham’s latest single isn’t cheering me up.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Mark gets home a little over an hour later, carrying a paper bag that smells of fried food.  I’m in a horrid temper.  Its nine ‘o clock, and I can hear our across-the-street neighbors playing loud music.  <strong><em>They’re</em></strong> having a party, Goddamnit.</p><p>“Hey baby,” Mark says, using his usual lovey-dovey, singsong tone that I can’t stand anymore.  “I got you fries, is that okay?”</p><p>“Sure,” I say tonelessly.</p><p>“Oh man, what a day,” Mark sighs, plopping down onto the couch next to me.</p><p>I notice that his belly folds over his belt, and he’s carrying more weight than usual in his face.  Jesus, when did my boyfriend get <strong><em>fat?</em></strong></p><p>Mark puts a Styrofoam container on the coffee table before me, and then a second before him.  “So,” he asks while scooping up the remote.  “<span class="u">Stranger Things</span>?  Or <span class="u">Ozark</span>?”</p><p>“Whatever,” I shrug.</p><p>“<span class="u">Stranger Things</span>,” decides Mark.  He clicks the remote, starts the next episode, then scoops up his double bacon cheeseburger.</p><p>I sigh, not really caring if Winona Ryder and her whole town are eaten by bad CGI effects.  My half grilled cheese looks greasy, and suddenly I’m not in the mood.</p><p>“That looks good,” Mark says beside me.  “Mind if I have a bite?”</p><p>I’m a little annoyed, but…  “Sure,” I allow.</p><p>Mark picks up my sandwich, and takes a bit chomp out of the <strong><em>center</em></strong>.  He doesn’t politely nibble the sides, he takes a good part, the part that is only buttery bread and hot cheese.  And he leaves me with just the crust.</p><p>“Dude!” I exclaim, annoyed.</p><p>“Wha’?” Mark asks, his mouth full.  He’s genuinely surprised at my indignation.</p><p>“Dude, that was my fucking dinner!” I seethe.  “What, you didn’t think I’d want any?”</p><p>“Oh,” Mark says, realizing his thoughtlessness.  “Uh…  Oh, jeez.  I’m sorry.”</p><p>I’m really pissed now.  “Can I get a bite of your’s then?”</p><p>Mark looks sheepish.  “I, uh…” he hems, “I ate it all already.”</p><p>“The whole <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> burger?” I stare at him.</p><p>“Sorry.”  My boyfriend is genuinely cringing now.  “Look, I can go back to <span class="u">Banake’s</span> and get you another grilled cheese…”</p><p>“Forget it,” I snarl, leaping off the couch.</p><p>Without another word, I storm into the bedroom and slam the door.  We’re not going out or doing anything, right?  I might as well go straight to the paperback novel now.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Its now two AM.  Mark is lying in bed next to me, snoring and drooling on his pillow.  He tried to tempt me into apology sex, but I just wasn’t up for it.  I’m still too mad.</p><p>Across the street, I can hear our neighbors.  They’re <strong><em>still</em></strong> partying, fer christsakes!</p><p>Angry for no reason, I scoop up my phone and earbuds.  I need some Kat Graham.  I click up her album, select a song, and listen:</p><p>
  <em>Tonight I'm gonna</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Throw my past away</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tonight I'm gonna</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Live like my last day</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It makes wanna say...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah yeah yeah!</em>
</p><p>That’s it.  My girl has spoken to me.  I’m throwing my past away.  Mark and I need to break up.  I’m never gonna hang with famous people if I’m chained to him.</p><p>The only questions are… how and when do I dump him?  We’re living together, for God’s sake, I can’t just skip out tomorrow.  I’ll need time to pack my shit up.</p><p>I mull over the logistics.  Hmm.  Today is the 20<sup>th</sup>.  Our rent is due in eleven days.  I’ll drop the bomb on Mark tomorrow, pay him one month’s extra rent, and then I’m outta here.</p><p>I wonder if I can still hook up with Shaving Boy…?  What was his name, again?</p><p>*** *** ***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Friday Night at Skizzle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Its Friday night at <span class="u">Skizzle</span>.  Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are always the craziest.  <span class="u">Skizzle</span>’s owner, a run-down skeezy fellow named Jamal Jack-Jack (I don’t get it) hates to pay for anything, but on Thursdays/Fridays/Saturdays, he always pays top dollar for the best DJs.  For once, I like the current guy’s music.</p><p>Its maybe 11:30 PM.  Its dark as a cavern in the club, with only the multicolored robot spotlights whirling away on the ceiling.  The main dance floor is <strong><em>packed</em></strong>, like, we’re way over the legal occupancy limit.  Our twelve bartenders are working overtime, and they’re barely holding back the ravenous crowds.  The other Drink Girls and I are scurrying everywhere, trying not to pop out of our low low low low low looooooow cut tops as we sling drinks.  I’ve made over two hundred buck in tips, and the night is just beginning.</p><p>I push my way to the bar and signal Jimmie, our newest bartender.  Jimmie looks frantic, but he completes his current order and hurries over.</p><p>“Here,” I shout to be heard over the throbbing music, and thrust my drink order list – plus two twenties – at him.</p><p>Jimmie grabs the list and gets right to work.</p><p>It pisses me off that I have to bribe the bartenders, but there’s no other way to get my drinks filled fast enough.  But if I’m quick, I should make it all back.  I hope.</p><p>There’s so many people at the bar that I’m squeezed next to this guy sitting here, probably in his early forties.  Overweight, balding, bad yellow teeth, terrible clothes, smells like cigarettes.  Eww.  He swivels to inspect me and looks straight down into my cleavage.</p><p>“Hey, hey, baby,” the old guy hiccups, and his breath reeks of beer.  I throw up a little in my mouth and mentally command Jimmie to mix those cocktails faster.</p><p>“I’m Destan,” the old guy shouts over the music, as if I asked.  “Destan Waverly.  You heard of me, right?”</p><p>I pause.  Destan Waverly?  Should I have heard of him?</p><p>“I’m a producer!” Destan leers.  “I make that show on the Blaze Network, the show about the sexy spies?  You know, <span class="u">Danger Trackers</span>?”</p><p>A <strong><em>producer?</em></strong>  Suddenly, Destan isn’t so ugly any more.</p><p>“Hey, Destan,” I smile.  “<span class="u">Danger Trackers</span>?  I love that show.”</p><p>I’ve never heard of that show.</p><p>“Yeeeeeeah, our show is pretty awesome,” Destan brags, sliding closer and putting a hand on my hip.  “You an actress?”</p><p>“Um…” I hedge, wondering how okay it is to lie in this situation.  “Well, people <strong><em>tell</em></strong> me I should be an actress.”</p><p>“Yeaaah,” agrees Destan, pulling me closer.  “The camera would love you, baby, it would love you.”</p><p>His hand slides over my hip, traveling towards my butt.</p><p>Jimmie signals me; my order is almost ready.</p><p>“I got a nice car in the parking lot,” smirks Destan, groping an ass cheek now.  “Whadda’bout you come in the back seat an’ audition?  You’d be great on <span class="u">Danger Truckers</span>.”</p><p>My smile fades.  “<span class="u">Danger <strong><em>Trackers</em></strong></span>,” I remind him.</p><p>“Fuck yeah,” Destan says carelessly.  Then he grabs my boobs.  My tits pop right out of my skimpy top.</p><p>Ugh!  Aghast and furious, I cry out, and shove Destan as hard as I can.  He falls against other patrons, laughing like a hyena.</p><p>Working quickly, I squeeze my girls back into my tiny dress, hoping that both nipples are covered completely.  Then I grab my serving tray from Jimmie and storm back toward my waiting customers.</p><p>As I stalk away, I hear people talking, laughing and sneering at how I was just treated.  Our customers can be such jerks.</p><p>I curse myself.  Why did I fucking let myself get groped like that?  Am I such an idiot to fall for the “<em>I’m a producer</em>” come-on line?  Shit.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>I’m on my 12:30 AM break, sitting in what passes as <span class="u">Skizzle</span>’s employee breakroom.  The old TV is showing a rerun of <span class="u">Friends</span>, “The One Where…”  Never mind.  I’m flopped on the beat-up sofa, sitting next to Jeanie and Kelly, two other Drink Girls.  We’re already exhausted.  My feet hurt.  I have five minutes before I’m to go back on-shift.</p><p>I pause to glance at my phone.  There’s a text from Mark, sent at 8:32 this evening:  <strong><em>Thinking of you</em></strong>, he writes.  <strong><em>Hope your work isn’t too bad.  I’ll be here to cuddle when you get home.</em></strong></p><p>I don’t bother replying.  Mark is already home, fast asleep, I’m sure.</p><p>No, I haven’t dumped Mark yet.  And yes, I’m still going to.  I held off because his aunt had some emergency thing in the hospital and blah blah blah and whatever.  But I’ve made up my mind.  I wish I was single already.</p><p>It annoys me that Mark is so sweet, totally sending me kissy emojis and little notes about how much he misses and respects me.  Whatever.  The dude is a thoughtless oaf one minute, eating my grilled cheese, then he’s a sappy Romeo the next, sending me these inane text messages.</p><p>You know what I want?  I want a guy who lets me get dressed up, takes me to a meat market like <span class="u">Skizzle</span>, shows me off, but beats the crap out of any jerk like Destan.  Then, after introducing me to Leo DiCaprio and Henry Cavill, my guy takes me home and bangs me raw.  Like, I want my pussy to ache when he’s done with me.  I don’t want cuddles and kissy emojis.</p><p>You know who Mark is?  He’s Ross.  He’s <strong><em>fucking Ross</em></strong> from <span class="u">Friends</span>.  I don’t want Ross, or Chandler, or Joey.  I want Tony Soprano in Adam Brody’s body.</p><p>The breakroom door opens, and Jamal Jack-Jack, <span class="u">Skizzle</span>’s owner, pokes his head in.  I glower, and try to pretend I didn’t notice him.</p><p>“Hey,” Jamal says, his voice impatient.  “Who’s about to come off-break?”</p><p>Aw, shit, I guess that would be me.  I slouch more on the couch.</p><p>“What’s up, boss?” Kelly asks.</p><p>“We got a VIP,” snaps Jamal.  “He wants a dedicated hostess.”</p><p>I groan inside.  <span class="u">Skizzle</span> is not a high-class joint, so its rare that any high-rollers come our way.  Jamal has a VIP pimp-room in the back, and as a service (and extra fee), he’ll assign one of us Drink Girls to remain with the VIP and his entourage, mostly to keep the champagne glasses filled and to flirt.  I’ve done it a few times; this is sure-fire way to ensure that you will get <strong><em>no tip</em></strong> at the end of the night.</p><p>“Who is it?” Kelly asks.  “I could do it.  Who’s the VIP?”</p><p>Jamal snaps his fingers.  “Oh… you know… that guy.  The guy.  The one with the TV show.”</p><p>My ears perk up, a little.  An actor?  Which actor?</p><p>“The guy on… <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span>,” Jamal remembers.  “You know, the dude who trains the cop chicks.”</p><p><span class="u">Surf Patrol</span>?</p><p>I know that show!  Once, months ago, I stumbled home from work, exhausted but not ready to sleep.  I clicked on the TV and just flicked through the channels.  And I found this stupid cheesy show called <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span>.</p><p>How to describe <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span>…?  Okay, you know that old show <span class="u">Baywatch</span>?  <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span> is, like, a cheap <span class="u">Baywatch</span> knockoff.  Its about an undercover police force – or something – who vigilantly patrols the beaches of LA, looking for diamond smugglers and foreign agents and crazed terrorists.  Of course, the cast of this show are in tiny swimwear the whole time, and there’s a <strong><em>lot</em></strong> of slo-mo jiggling in the running scenes.</p><p>It’s the dumbest piece of shit on TV.  And I watch a lot of TV.</p><p><span class="u">Surf Patrol</span> stars a dude named Sebastian Milo, who used to be hot ten years ago, but is definitely washed-up now.  You’ve seen him guest-starring on lesser shows like <span class="u">Bones</span>, <span class="u">Gotham</span>, <span class="u">Secrets and Lies</span>, and that crappy show, whatisit…  <span class="u">The Good Place</span>.  And I think he had an embarrassing stint on a reality dating show a few years back.  He’s not bad-looking, but… not hot.  Not Adam Brody hot, fer sure.</p><p>But on the other hand…  Sebastian Milo <strong><em>is</em></strong> famous.</p><p>“I’ll do it,” I say quickly, sitting up.  “I’ll do VIP tonight!”</p><p>“Its mine,” Kelly retorts.  “I already called it.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jamal agrees.  He glares at me.  “And you shoved a customer, Meg.  You’re lucky I don’t fire your ass.”</p><p>“That guy grabbed my boobs!” I protest.  “I was supposed to take that?”</p><p>“C’mon,” Jamal gestures to Kelly, who hops off the couch.</p><p>“I’m gonna get the VIP situated,” says Jamal, lighting another cigarette.  “Kel, you bring a tray with three bottles of champagne after ten minutes.  You’ll be with the VIP for as long as they stay.  Charge ‘em an extra twenty percent per bottle, you keep five percent.  Push the chicken wings.  Got it?”</p><p>“Yep,” Kelly nods.</p><p>Jamal nods, exhales a cloud of smoke, and then is gone.</p><p>A strange fury consumes me.  Here I am, on the eve of dumping Mark, and I could be Sebastian Milo’s girlfriend, if I play my cards right.  Who is Kelly to block me?</p><p>I don’t know why, but I gotta get in that VIP room.  Life is about opportunities, right?</p><p>Of course it is.  That’s how Kat Graham got where she is today.  If she were here, what would she tell me?</p><p>
  <em>Don't be shy, crank up the heat</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Turn it up, turn it up, let's get it on</em>
</p><p>Damn straight.  I rise, and move to murmur in Kelly’s ear.</p><p>“Hey,” I breathe, “let me have this one, ‘kay?”</p><p>“Fuck off,” frowns Kelly.</p><p>“C’mooooooon,” I coax.  “I’m, like, a huge <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span> fangirl.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”  Kelly’s not buying it.</p><p>Working quickly, I dig through my minipurse, then press a wad of twenties into her hand, my whole take for the night.  “You wouldn’t want me to miss out on Sebastian, right?”</p><p>Kelly looks at the money, then shrugs.  “That show’s a piece of shit, you know.”</p><p>I grin.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>I recheck my makeup, hair, and outfit, then scurry to the main danceroom of the club.  No-one blinks when I slip behind the bar, grab a silver tray, three bottles of champagne, and as many champagne flutes as I dare.  Then, fighting the crowds, I push my way to the back corridor.</p><p>The VIP room is isolated away, with a view of the main room through a big one-way mirror.  The room itself is draped in black velvet, with nice couches, a table, a locked minibar, and two flatscreen TVs hanging from the ceilings.  There’s already about a dozen people crammed in here, all laughing and talking.  I do a quick headcount: seven men, five girls.</p><p>Jamal Jack-Jack is here, getting everyone seated.  His face twists when he sees me enter.  So before he can berate me, I hurry to the front of the room, bending over to set the bottles onto the table.  “Welcome to <span class="u">Skizzle</span>, everyone!” I cry happily.  “I’m Meg, I’ll be your dedicated server tonight.”</p><p>The entourage cheers, and everyone reaches for a glass.  I have to work fast to fill every flute.</p><p>When I glance up, Jamal is fuming at me.  Whatever.  Its too late for him to yank me.</p><p>So, resigned, our club owner decides to submit to fate.  “Whatever you guys need, Meg will take care of you,” he announces.  And then he’s gone.  The door clicks behind him.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Now that the VIP customers are drinking, I can take a good look at them.</p><p>The men are all in their late twenties, I’m guessing, with sleek beach bodies and square jaws.  Most are African-American.  The women are younger, maybe my age, with chunky figures, big tits, and curvy hips.  Every girl has a guy with his arm around her.  This crew doesn’t look like they put much effort into going out; no-one is wearing anything fancier than jeans and ripped tee shirts.  That dude is in flip-flops, fer cryin’ out loud, and that chick with the Afrobraids is in a pink bikini top.  Maybe they call came here straight from the beach?</p><p>But where is…</p><p>Ah.  <strong><em>There’s</em></strong> Sebastian Milo.  I shoulda seen him immediately.  He’s just like I pictured; rugged, handsome, chiseled.  His skin is really weather-beaten, like he’s been tanning a little too much lately.  But I like his thick brown hair, his piercing gaze, his lopsided grin, and his diamond stud earring.  He’s wearing an open jacket – no shirt – and denim slacks.</p><p>Now that I look at Sebastian, I realize: he’s handsome… but not that handsome.  Like, Mark was cuter when he and I first met.  And the TV star is bulging a bit at the waistline.  Oh, he’s sucking the gut in, but I can tell.  Huh.  I thought actors had to be reed-thin, because the camera adds ten pounds?</p><p>Well, maybe I haven’t seen <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span> this season.</p><p>I also note that Sebastian is one of the two guys without a woman snuggled up against him.  Encouraging.</p><p>The TV star glances up, and our eyes lock.  I use my best <em>sexy-but-sweet</em> expression, and hold his gaze.</p><p>“What was your name again?” Sebastian asks me.  Ah, I recognize his voice.</p><p>“Meg,” I reply.</p><p>“Meg, we’re gonna need a few pitchers of beer, some wings, napkins, some of that deep-fried stuff, and then tequila shots,” orders Sebastian.  “And do you guys have dancing girls?”</p><p>“No, no dancing girls,” I say, my face falling.  “But I’ll get all those other things, right away, sir.”</p><p>Sebastian turns to the dudes next to him, and joins their conversation.  I’m already forgotten.</p><p>Well.  Becoming Sebastian’s next girlfriend might be more challenging than I thought.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>When I return to the VIP suite, my arms struggling from the weight of the serving tray, Sebastian’s party has already started.  Somehow, his entourage as commandeered the TVs and they’re playing a disgusting porno.  Gross!  I try to avert my eyes.</p><p>The lights in here are low, and I see half of the couples are heavily making out.  I move to the table, quickly setting down the beer and food.  Greedy hands swarm in, helping themselves.</p><p>Meanwhile, the conversations are rolling on, all around me.  The men are talking sports; the women are feigning interest.</p><p>“Bast, I’m bored!” one of the ladies finally complains.  “I thought we were comin’ here to go dancing!  You wanna dance with me?”</p><p>Sebastian waves a dismissive hand.  “I don’t dance, Chanel.”</p><p>“I wanna dance,” declares Chanel.  “Who else wants to dance?”</p><p>But Sebastian won’t budge.  And when Sebastian won’t budge, none of the men budge.  And so none of the women will dare leave.  Chanel pouts.</p><p>My work is done, for the moment.  I move off to the side, careful to stay in Sebastian’s field of vision.  He’s checking me out, I’m sure of it.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Two hours later, and this party is losing its energy.  Sebastian and his crew just seem to want to sit on the couches, eye the porno, and eat food.  There’s a lot of burping from this crew.  My feet are beginning to hurt.</p><p>I’m also getting worried.  How the hell am I supposed to get Sebastian to notice me?  He clearly likes my body, but he hasn’t so much as said a word to me, outside of more orders for food.  I doubt he remembers my first name.</p><p>Chanel shares my exasperation.  “Oh my God!” she cries out.  “Guys, are we gonna just sit here?  Let’s do <strong><em>something</em></strong> fun!”</p><p>“You’re right,” Sebastian agrees, nodding.</p><p>“Come on, Bast, we’re bustin’ moves!” squeals Chanel, seizing Sebastian’s hand.  “First dance is mine.”</p><p>“Naw, I got a better idea,” Sebastian declares.  He cranes his neck around.  “Where’s Scotty?  Scotty?  Yo, Scotty man!  Front ‘n center!”</p><p>A handsome young African American dude jumps forward, setting his beer carefully on the table.  I like this Scotty.  He’s cute, and he probably spends more time fussing over his hair than I do.</p><p>“Scotty!” Sebastian proclaims.  He rubs his hands together.  “You know what we should do.  I want you to hypnotize Chanel.”</p><p>Immediately, all the guys roar with approval.  “Yeah!” they chorus.  “Yeah!”</p><p>My eyes almost pop from their sockets.  Did Sebastian say <em>hypnotize?</em></p><p>Chanel looks horror-stricken.  “Oh, no!” she protests.  “Nuh-uh!”</p><p>“Aw come on, Chanel baby!” Sebastian beams.  “You’d be great under hypnosis.”</p><p>“No fucking way,” declares Chanel.  “I ain’t being turned into a chicken, no way.”</p><p>“I don’t do the chicken thing,” Scotty assures her.  “Hypnotized people actually hate that shit.”</p><p>“Well, I ain’t doing it,” Chanel snaps.  “No fucking way.  Hypnotize him.”  She points to her boyfriend.</p><p>But the men won’t have it.  “Not Leroy!” they scoff.  “No, not a dude!”</p><p>“What, dudes can’t be hypnotized?” snarls Chanel.  The chick is clearly riled.</p><p>A debate erupts.  The men want to see a woman get hypnotized.  But none of these ladies are willing.  Given Sebastian’s leering expression, I can’t blame them.</p><p>But then…</p><p>What if I volunteered to get hypnotized?</p><p>Oh my God.  <strong><em>This is perfect!</em></strong>  I already know that I’ll go under, but I’ll still be in control the whole time.  Just like in high school, right?  And Scotty will probably make me do a sexy dance, maybe make out with Sebastian, maybe something harmless and fun, right?  And while I’m under Scotty’s spell, Sebastian can’t help but stare at me.  I mean, look at him!  He’s practically erect, just thinking about hypnotized women.</p><p>“I’ll do it!” I shout over the arguments.  “I’ll get hypnotized!”</p><p>Everyone stops fighting to stare at me.  I offer a sexy, little-girl-giggle.  “I always wanted to try hypnotism,” I lie.  “I bet its really cool.”</p><p>Immediately, Sebastian points at me.  “Yes,” he demands.  “Put the waitress chick under.”</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>The entourage clears a space for me on the couch.  I sit down.  (Oh my God!  These couches are <strong><em>amazing!</em></strong>)  Now everyone leans in, to watch me carefully.  Someone turns off the pornos, and shuts off the audio feed from the dance floor.  Its relatively quiet in here.</p><p>Scotty stands directly before me.  Is he gonna swing a pocket watch?</p><p>“Look into my eyes,” the hypnotist instructs.  “Look very deeply.  As you do, your body will begin to relax…”</p><p>Scotty has pretty brown eyes.  I gaze up at him, wondering why the hypnosis guy who came to my high school didn’t do this when he hypnotized us before?  Maybe there’s more than one way to hypnotize someone, I guess.  I don’t feel very different.</p><p>Well… now that Scotty mentioned it…  I am feeling relaxed.  The night is catching up with me.  When I’m on-shift, I’m on my feet for hours, you know.  Why, allowing my legs to relax is just… just…</p><p>Um…</p><p>…I feel good…</p><p>…suddenly…  I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open…  Did Scotty say that would happen?  I can’t…  can’t… remember…</p><p>I…</p><p>Mmm…</p><p>**** **** ****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Kat Graham Meets Adam Brody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My eyes are closed.  I’m totally relaxed.  I’m sitting on the couch, yet I’m floating in what feels like an amazing river of warmth and relaxing joy.  Seriously, my whole body feels like it turned off, and now all my muscles are getting bathed in sunlight and energy.  I don’t want to move, I don’t want to open my eyes, I don’t want to think.  I just want to float and obey.</p><p>Obey whom?  This dream-like voice in my mind.  It says the most powerful things to me, and I find that whatever the voice describes just comes true.  “<strong><em>When I snap my fingers,</em></strong>” the voice tells me at one point, “<strong><em>you will try to open your eyes.  But you will be unable to.  Your eyelids are no longer yours to control.</em></strong>”</p><p>I heard a finger snap, and to my amazement, my eyelids were glued shut!  I struggled, but they simply would not open.</p><p>The voice told me to stop trying, and I obeyed.  I fell deeper under its spell, where all I want to do is follow and obey and relax.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>“<strong><em>She’s under,</em></strong>” I hear the wonderful voice say… and I somehow realize it is not talking to me.</p><p>“<strong><em>She’s hypnotized?</em></strong>” another voice asks.  A man’s voice.</p><p>“<strong><em>Oh my God, is this chick under!</em></strong>” the first voice exclaims.  “<strong><em>This chick is under DEEP.  She’ll do whatever I want now.</em></strong>”</p><p>I’m hypnotized?  Dimly, I wonder if that can be true.  I feel so relaxed, so good, so… mmm…  Its like my whole body just turned off, and all I want to do is obey the voice in my mind.</p><p>But this isn’t what I experienced in high school.  No.  When I was hypnotized in high school, yeah, I felt relaxed… but I also felt like I could wake up any time I wanted.  Now?  I can’t move a muscle.  And I don’t want to.</p><p>I’m confused…  But I don’t care.  I feel so zen.  I want to obey.</p><p>Obeying Scotty feels good.  So good.</p><p>Inside, I want to smile.  I feel so relaxed, so at peace, so content.  I will happily do anything Scotty commands me.</p><p>Anything.  I am hypnotized.</p><p>The voices are becoming clearer.</p><p>“She took a while to go under,” I hear Sebastian’s voice observe.</p><p>“No, not really,” Scotty, my master, responds.  “I took longer on her because I wanted her superdeep.  But now, she’ll do anything you want, man.  And she won’t remember it afterword.  I’ve got her.”</p><p>“Heh,” Sebastian gloats.  “She’s hot.  <strong><em>Anything</em></strong>, huh?”</p><p>“You just want to see her titties,” Chanel accuses.</p><p>“Anything you want, man,” promises Scotty.</p><p>“Let’s find out about her,” Sebastian orders.  “Give her truth serum.”</p><p>I feel Scotty’s kind hand on my shoulder.  “In a moment, Meg, I’ll count from one to five.  When I reach the number five, you’ll open your eyes, but remain in deep relaxation.  What you will discover is that any question we ask you, you will immediately tell us the complete, unvarnished truth.  Nothing truthful can remain behind your lips.  You must tell us.  Awakening now, on one… two… three… four… five!”</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>On their own, my eyes open.  I stare blankly ahead, no focusing on anything.  I feel great.</p><p>“How you doin’, Meg?” Scotty my Master asks me.</p><p>“Good,” I respond mindlessly.</p><p>“Tell me, Meg,” he presses, “why did you want to get hypnotized?”</p><p>I want to tell him the truth.  “I want to date Sebastian,” I say in a flat voice.  “I’m about to dump my boyfriend, and I want to be his girl.  If I get hypnotized, he’ll notice me.”</p><p>This provokes a reaction.  The entourage laughs and hoots, especially the men.</p><p>Scotty waves a hand for quiet.  “Do you want to fuck Sebastian?” he asks.</p><p>“No, not really,” I say truthfully.  “He’s fat.  And not that handsome.”</p><p>The VIP customers stop laughing on the spot.  There’s a shocked silence in the room.</p><p>“Uh,” I hear Scotty cringe.  “Well, why do you want to date Sebastian, then?”</p><p>“He’s famous,” I confess.  “I want to be famous, too.”</p><p>“She’s a bitch,” Chanel marvels.</p><p>“Whatever.  I still want to fuck her,” says Sebastian.  “Look at her jugs!”</p><p>“Oh, hell no,” Chanel grumbles.  “You gonna fuck her front of all of us?”</p><p>“Yeah…” murmurs the TV star.  I feel his appreciative hand caress my thigh.  “I wanna fuck her with people watching.  That’s my thing.”  To himself, he comments, “I shoulda been in pornos.”</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Scotty tells him.  “I got this.  But we’ll have to use Meg’s imagination in a creative way, alright?”</p><p>My master addresses me once more.  “In a moment, Meg, I will snap my fingers.  When I do, your ideal female celebrity, the one famous person you would love to be, will pop into your mind.  At the same time, you will speak this name aloud.”</p><p>He snaps his fingers.</p><p>A woman, a beautiful woman appears in my mind.</p><p>“Kat Graham,” I robotically say.</p><p> There are murmurs of approval from the entourage.  “Oh, nice,” more than one woman compliments.</p><p>“And now, Meg,” Scotty goes on, “I will snap my fingers once again.  When I do, you will automatically tell me all of the celebrity men who you find hot, hot, hot.”</p><p>Tell you my guy crushes?  Yes, master.</p><p>Scotty snaps his fingers.</p><p>“Adam Brody,” I respond.  “Chris Evans.  Henry Cavill.  Jake Gyllenthaal.  Chase Crawford.”</p><p>“Very good,” purrs Scotty.  He passes a hand before my face.  “Sleep…!”</p><p>My eyes close, and I sink a thousand times deeper into relaxation.  I remember no more.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>And then…</p><p>“…one…  two…”</p><p>I’m dimly aware of that wonderful voice, that voice which controls me, counting upward.  My body responds to the count, filling with energy.</p><p>“Five!”</p><p>My eyes fly open, and I blink.  I sit up slowly, momentarily confused.  The cobwebs clear quickly…</p><p>Oh, right.  I’m Kat Graham.  I just dropped my new single this week, and already its Number One.  That’s awesome, but I’m used to it.  After all, when you’re-</p><p>“How do you feel?” a male voice asks me.</p><p>I glance up, and my heart skips a beat.  There, sitting across from me, is Adam Brody, <strong><em>Adam Fucking Brody!</em></strong>  I mean, I’ve met Adam before, of course, because I’m famous and he’s famous and we famous people all know each other and hang out and shit, you know?</p><p>Still…  I let my eyes wander over Adam’s gorgeousness.  Oh, it <strong><em>is</em></strong> him!  There’s the boyish good looks, the puppy-dog eyes, the thick brown hair, the lean bod, the cool smile.  Outside, I smile coyly… but inside, I’m swooning.  Oh fuck!  I forgot how hot Adam is in real life!</p><p>I bet his cock is huge.</p><p>There’s a ripple of laughter around me.</p><p>I look about.  Holy shit, Chris Evans is at this party, too!  And Henry Cavill!  And – fuck me – Jake Gyllenthaal!  Oh, sweet Jesus, there’s Chase Crawford!</p><p>I got dropped into the ultimate man-party.</p><p>Well, this is the sort of thing that happens when you’re Kat Graham.  I have to remember to thank my agent.</p><p>“Don’t forget,” Chris Evans says to Adam Brody, “she’s hypnotized to think that you’re Adam Brody.  So don’t do nothing Adam Brody wouldn’t do, Sebastian.”</p><p>“Got it,” Adam agrees.</p><p>I don’t know what that little exchange was about, but I don’t care.  As I gaze as Adam in the flesh, I feel myself getting wet.  I can’t stop wondering what he looks like naked.  And wondering what his penis would feel like in my-</p><p>“Hey,” grins Adam, “why not come and sit by me?”</p><p>Although I want to throw myself at the man and rip his fucking clothes off, I have to think about my image.  I’m Kat Graham.  I have high standards.  <strong><em>Adam’s</em></strong> got to charm <strong><em>me</em></strong>.</p><p>I snuggle against my crush, enjoying the feel of his body against mine.  He smells wonderful, like fresh, crushed pine needles.  And I swear, up close, I can appreciate how physically perfect he is.  I’m so wet.</p><p>Adam grins, then leans in to kiss me.  At the same time, he reaches for my chest.</p><p>Whoa!  Okay, I totally want to fuck his brains out, but really!  Here, <strong><em>in front of everyone?</em></strong></p><p>I slap Adam, quickly but firmly.</p><p>He gapes, caught off-guard.</p><p>“Dude!” I snap.  “You call that treating a lady?”</p><p>Adam looks at Chris Evans helplessly.</p><p>So Chris leans closer to me.  “Meg… ah, Kat look into my eyes,” he instructs.</p><p>Suddenly, I find that I can’t look away.  Chris Evans’ eyes are mesmerizing me.</p><p>“When I snap my fingers,” Chris says, “you will realize that you are madly in love with Adam, so in love that you can’t refuse anything he wants you to do.  And you are horny, so horny.  You will do anything he wants.  He is your Master.”</p><p>These words penetrate deep into my mind.  I can’t resist.</p><p>Chris Evans snaps his fingers.</p><p>My thoughts go blank, just for a second.</p><p>Wait…  Omigod, I <strong><em>love</em></strong> Adam!  I’m so in love with him.  I love him so fucking much, all I want to do is pleasure him like I’m his slave and he commands me.  God, I hope he commands me.  I’d kill to suck his cock.</p><p>Even though all these people are watching, I moan and lean against Adam.  Our lips meet.  I kiss him eagerly.  His tongue feels <strong><em>so good</em></strong> probing my mouth.</p><p>Mmm…!</p><p>I want Adam.  I’ll do anything he commands me to do.  I love him that goddamned much.  I’ll get naked right here and ride his cock if I can.</p><p>Adam’s hands swarm over me, and with delight, I feel him pull my top downward.  My breasts spring free; I feel the cold air conditioning on my nipples.  They stand erect.</p><p>Directing me with his hands, Adam bids me to stand on the couch on my knees.  His grateful lips wander down my jaw, my neck and then my collarbone.  Soon, he’s kissing my breasts.  Oh, he feels so good!  I run my fingers through that thick hair, loving how soft it feels.  My eyes slide closed.</p><p>I find myself murmuring one of my own songs:</p><p>
  <em>I can't resist, it so I get submissive</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With every thought of you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gotta give it up, with just my luck</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Push me harder in love with you</em>
</p><p>I mean every word.  Adam loves me, I love him, he makes me feel powerful.</p><p>Oh, God, my pussy is aching for him.  I feel juices run down the inside of my legs.  I must smell like a bitch in heat.</p><p>Well, I am a bitch in heat.</p><p>“Strip me naked, master,” I grunt aloud.  “Strip me naked.”</p><p>Although I know there are people watching, I don’t care.  I don’t fucking care.  I want them to see me completely in the nude, boning away with Adam, my lover, my master.  I want it all.</p><p>My master wastes little time.  The little zipper in the back of my dress is soon pulled down, and to my delight, I feel the tight little outfit relax and fall away.  I have to step away from Adam to let it drop down my legs, and then take another second to push down my stockings and panties, too.</p><p>Damn – my panties are sopping.  Fuck me!</p><p>I kick off my heels, and now I’m completely nude.  I feel absolutely free as a bird.</p><p>With little hesitation, I grab Adam by the belt.  My fingers make quick work of the buckle, and Adam’s eyes go wide as he realizes I intend to yank his pants off completely.  But he moves to accommodate.</p><p>This is so weird.  In one way, I feel like I am being controlled; I am stripping naked, getting horny, calling this gorgeous man “master.”  None of this I would ever do in real life.  I’m Kat Graham, for fuck’s sake!  And yet, it is also I who am in control of the situation.  I have stripped Adam from the waist down, because I have decided that we will have sex.</p><p>When I’ve tossed aside my master’s trousers, I marvel his erect cock.  So big.  So mighty.  He might hurt me coming in, but… oh, I want it.  I want this cock.</p><p>I swab my pussy with one hand, and am delighted to feel how wet I am down there.  Then, with my own vage juices, I begin rubbing Adam’s shaft, very slowly.</p><p>“You feel that, baby?” I whisper loudly.  “You feel how good you make me feel?”</p><p>Adam’s eyes roll back in his head as he moans.  He’s aroused.  Fuck, he might spout off!  I gotta work fast.</p><p>I want him to come in me doggie style.  I want him thrusting so hard, I’ll be afraid that he’ll launch me through the far wall.  I want to lean back and feel him ram me.  Again, and again, and again, and again…!</p><p>So I twist about, placing one knee and both hands on the couch.  I study myself with the other leg.  Then I arch my back, presenting my nude butt to my master.</p><p>“Do me,” I half-plead, half-command.</p><p>I am delighted when I feel his hands on my buttocks.  For a moment, the cock toys with my butthole.  That feels good, but-</p><p>“Not there!” I snarl.  “Other hole!”</p><p>Kat Graham does <strong><em>NOT</em></strong> do anal.</p><p>My master quickly repositions, and then I feel his tip slide into my chamber.</p><p>I’m unprepared for the tidal wave of pleasure.</p><p>“Oh fuck!” I shout, my arms almost crumbling against the couch.</p><p>“Ugh, yeah, yeah, yeaaaaah,” mumbles the man behind me.  He pulls out, then pushes back in again.  And again.  And…</p><p>…<strong><em>now</em></strong> he’s fucking me.  Oh God!  Its been so long!  How long?  I don’t fucking know, I don’t fucking care.  Oh, fuck, this feels sooooo…!!!</p><p>Now my master is hammering me, throttling away at full speed.  He’s grazing my clit <strong><em>just so</em></strong>, just the way that drives me mad, absolutely fucking bonkers.  I lose control of my mouth as I start jabbering away in nonsense sex talk:  “<em>Oh baby oh fuck oh harder baby fuck me fuck me fuck me so hard oh your dick is so hard I fucking love you I’m gonna cum I’m gonna cum all over your hard dick oh fuck fuck fuck fuck meeee…!!!</em>”</p><p>I feel my ass cheeks slapping away against his legs and groin.  The heat excites me.  My legs are so tense right now.</p><p>And my orgasm…  like a tigress lured out of the jungle, my orgasm suddenly leaps forward, roaring in triumph and delight.  I squeal in amazement as my pussy kicks, then squirts all over my master’s rigid cock.  The delight explodes through my whole body.</p><p>I feel my head spin, and then my fingers and toes glow in celebration.  I have the weird sensation of being filled with magical glitter.  I feel like this cock is blasting me across a universe of pleasure.</p><p>“Oh God oh fuck!” I gasp, clawing at the couch.</p><p>My orgasm is fading, but I’m still horny as shit.  I want another.</p><p>My master is no longer moving.  Its like he’s turned to stone back there.  I know he came, because I heard him grunt and felt him slap my butt.  And I felt that great warmth kiss me inside.</p><p>But now, he’s still as a rock.  I pull off his cock, then whirl around to kiss his body aggressively.  My hands explore him, as I’m trying to push him down.  I’m both trying to make love to him and wrestle him down on to his back.  I want to ride him, cowgirl style.</p><p>“Oh shit…” he moans.</p><p>“Fuck me again, master,” I pant between kisses.  “Fuck me again!”</p><p>My master tries to kiss me, but its clear his energy is spent.  His lips put up a feeble energy.</p><p>But I’m Kay Graham, damnit!  Master or no, we’re not done until I say we’re done!</p><p>As I begin to win the battle, my master mumbles, “Scotty…  put her under…”</p><p>“Meg, look at me,” a male voice says to my right.  I’m so fucking horny, I don’t know or care who it is.  I glance over.</p><p>“Sleep!” the voice commands, just as a pair of fingers snap in my face.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>I am suddenly plunged into a wonderful, relaxing darkness.  I can dimly feel hands all over my body, carefully guiding me to lie on the couch.  I haven’t a care in the world.</p><p>As my thoughts drift and I relax even more, I hear voices.</p><p>“Holy shit,” pants Sebastian Milos.  He sounds like he just ran a marathon.  “…holy shit!”</p><p>“Fuck me, man,” Scotty tells him.  “This one almost broke you.”</p><p>Chanel speaks next; she sound pissed.  “I still don’t understand why you get off on us watching, Bast.  Its sick.”</p><p>“Whatever…” groans Sebastian.  “Fuck me.  Meg here was the best you’ve ever given me, Scotty.”</p><p>“She’s an exceptional subject,” the hypnotist remarks.  “You… want me to program her to come home with us?”</p><p>“No,” Sebastian, and he sounds in pain.  “Aw, fuck…  Ow!  You guys, I think she sprained my fucking groin!”</p><p>“Seriously?” Chanel can’t resist putting in.  “She <strong><em>broke</em></strong> your <strong><em>dick?</em></strong>  Poetic justice.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” snaps Sebastian, and he’s angry now.  “Ow!  Aw, Goddamnit!”  He’s really in pain.</p><p>I hear some movement as the TV star struggles to put on his clothes.  “We’re going,” he gruffly announces.</p><p>The men murmur; they sound disappointed.</p><p>“Whadda we do with her?” Scotty asks, and I have a funny feeling that he means me.</p><p>“Erase her memory,” winces Sebastian.  “We were never with her, get me?  Ow, <strong><em>fuck!</em></strong>”</p><p>For some reason, when I hear this, I grow afraid.  <strong><em>Erase my memory?</em></strong>  What will be erased?  I don’t want to forget anything!</p><p>But then, Scotty’s hand in on my shoulder, and his voice is in my mind.  And I can’t resist his commands…</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Its now after four AM, quitting time.  <span class="u">Skizzle</span>’s weary employees are slipping into coats and stifling yawns.  We’re all exhausted.</p><p>“Hey,” Kelly asks me as we are finding our punch cards, “how was your VIP party?”</p><p>I frown.  “VIP party?”</p><p>“Yeah,” replies Kelly, giving me a funny look.  “You know, the one you hustled me to get?”</p><p>“I didn’t do a VIP party,” I inform her.  “I was on the floor all night.”  And I got nothing for tips, too!  Goddamnit.</p><p>Kelly looks like she wants to argue, but then shrugs.  “See ya tomorrow,” she says lifelessly, and punches out.</p><p>**** **** ****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Epilogue:  You Know I Can't Get Enough Of…</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m driving home now.  The best thing about working a night club is that you have the easiest commute home.  Traffic in LA is nightmarish, except between three and five AM.</p><p>Still, I’m uneasy.  Why did Kelly think I had a VIP party?  I didn’t…</p><p>I frown.  Why do I have the feeling… that I had sex?  Like, my pussy is definitely murmuring to me, happy for some-</p><p>Oh my God.</p><p>I almost skid to a complete stop on Route 101.  Oh my God!  I <strong><em>did so</em></strong> a VIP party!  I was hypnotized!</p><p>Oh, shit!  I was hypnotized into having sex with Sebastian Milos!  Fuck!</p><p>Memories burst into my mind.  I remember everything.</p><p>Suddenly, I feel like I’m about to barf.  Like, really, really hurl out my guts, all over the steering wheel.  I quickly roll down my window for fresh air.</p><p>A wave a revulsion and guilt sweeps over me.  Oh, fuck, I was <strong><em>hypnotized into cheating on Mark!</em></strong></p><p>Yes, I wanted to break up with the guy, but…  but…</p><p>But did I want things to happen this way?</p><p>No.</p><p>I may be star-crazy, but… was I so heartless that I would allow myself to get fucked by a famous stranger?</p><p>I know, I was under hypnosis, I wasn’t in control of what I was doing, right?</p><p>But I swear I’ve heard that hypnotized people can’t be forced to do what they don’t want to do.  And that means that deep down inside, I <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> to have sex.  I <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> to cheat on Mark.</p><p>Oh, God.</p><p>I feel absolutely horrible.  Am I a cheating skank?  My mother once cheated on my dad, and he never forgave her, not even on the day he died.  I always prayed that I wouldn’t turn out like her.</p><p>A car behind me honks loudly, and I realize I’m not paying attention to the road.  I slap myself once, and concentrate on getting home.</p><p>**** **** ****</p><p>Feeling lower than dirt, I quietly unlock the door to my apartment.  Mark will be long asleep, of course, but-</p><p>Wait a minute.  I heard a woman’s voice:</p><p>“<em>Ohhh baby, baby, your cock feels soooo good, ram me baby, ram me like I’m your fucking whore, ram me!</em>”</p><p>My blood runs cold.  <strong><em>Mark has a woman here?  IN OUR BED?!?</em></strong></p><p>My guilt is blown apart by a volcano eruption of rage!!!  I throw down my coat and storm in the bedroom, my eyes blazing.  “<strong><em>YOU FUCKING PRICK-</em></strong>“ I start to holler.</p><p>Mark jumps and yells out in terror.  He’s sitting on the bed… alone… his laptop in lying across his legs, and his naked penis is in his hands.</p><p>As Mark and I stare at one another, the video on his laptop keeps playing: “<em>Yeah, baby, fuck me even harder, even harder!  Make me yourrrrr ahhhhh!!!  OH FUCK!!!</em>”</p><p>Humiliated, Mark slams the laptop shut and stuffs his cock into his pajama pants.  His face is bright red, and he can’t look at me.</p><p>And just like that, my rage withers.  My emotions pile up on one another, and I don’t know what to do.</p><p>I start crying.</p><p>Mark is breathing rapidly.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.  “I’m so sorry, Meg.  Its just that…  We haven’t….  I really needed to….”</p><p>“Shut up,” I whimper.  I crumble into a ball on the floor.</p><p>Misunderstanding me, Mark rushes to put his arms around me.  “Hey baby,” he says in that dopey way of his.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m <strong><em>so</em></strong> sorry!”</p><p>“Shut up!” I almost shout.  Now my guilt is crushing.</p><p>Mark won’t shut up.  “You’ve just seemed so unhappy lately,” he tells me.  “I thought it was me, that I wasn’t giving you enough love or affection, you know?  And giving you sex.  But you never wanted sex, I just figured I was doing something wrong-“</p><p>“I was hypnotized to cheat on you!” I blurt out.  “I fucked Sebastian Milos tonight!”</p><p>Its like a bomb went off in the room.  The deathly silence is almost like white noise.  Mark withdraws slightly, looking at me in horror.</p><p>“<em>…what?</em>” his wide eyes ask.</p><p>“Oh, God,” I burble, the tears still flowing.</p><p><strong><em>Why</em></strong> did I just tell him that?  Am I still hypnotized?  Or is my subconscious acting on other impulses?</p><p>I explain, as best I can.  I tell Mark about Sebastian Milos’ VIP party, and how I was assigned to be their dedicated Drink Girl.  “Sebastian wanted to hypnotize someone, just for fun,” I sniff.  “For laughs, with his friends.”</p><p>“And they hypnotized you?” Mark asks.</p><p>I nod.  I tell him about my hypnotism experience in high school, and why I thought I could handle Scotty’s hypnotic powers.  “But they took complete control of me!” I wail.  “I couldn’t resist anything they told me to do!  I had to fuck…”</p><p>I break down crying, again.</p><p>You know what the worst of this whole mess is?  I totally deserve all the shit that I’m gonna get buried in.  <strong><em>I</em></strong> schemed to dump Mark.  <strong><em>I</em></strong> put myself under Scotty’s control.  <strong><em>I</em></strong> let Sebastian and his cronies brainwash me.  I have no-one to blame but myself.</p><p>And what will happen next?  Mark will be the one to dump me, and he’ll be right to do it.  I’ll be without a boyfriend, no prospects of meeting celebrities, just another tits-stupid cocktail waitress.  I’ll go from not appreciating what I had… to having nothing.</p><p>I’m shit.</p><p>As I sob quietly, I’m aware of Mark’s ominous silence.  Is he going to yell?  Hit me?  Kick me out?</p><p>“Hey,” he says softly, “baby…”</p><p>Well, he doesn’t sound outraged.  I sniff, dry my tears, then dare to look at him.</p><p>Mark is kneeling before me, but his expression is unreadable.  “I don’t get it,” he says point-blank.  “<strong><em>Why</em></strong> did you get hypnotized?”</p><p>“I… um…” I mumble, uncertain how to respond.  “I just let them do it.”</p><p>“Yeah, but <strong><em>why?</em></strong>” presses Mark.  “I mean, your boss couldn’t have ordered you to do it.  And I don’t know much about hypnosis, but I do know that you have to volunteer.  Why did you volunteer?”</p><p>Is Mark… letting me off?  A thousand workable lies fly through my mind all at once.  Should I try to fib my way out of this?</p><p>No.  No, Mark deserves the truth.</p><p>“I wanted Sebastian Milos to notice me,” I say miserably.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“He’s <strong><em>famous</em></strong>,” I say, angry that after all our time together, Mark <strong><em>still</em></strong> doesn’t know that I have a thing for celebrities.</p><p>“He’s kind of crappy famous,” Mark points out.  “I mean, have you seen his show?  <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span>?”</p><p>“But he’s still famous,” I mutter, staring at our carpet.  “I wanted to meet his other famous friends.”</p><p>“You wanted to dump me,” says Mark, fully getting it now.  “You wanted to trade me up for him.”</p><p>“Yeah…” I confess.  And I start crying again.  “But I didn’t want to fuck him!”</p><p>Mark withdraws, just a little.</p><p>We remain hunched on the floor, listening to the sound of my sobs.</p><p>“I always thought…” Mark says slowly, “…that you were unhappy because I wasn’t attentive enough for you.”</p><p>“No, you idiot!” I almost explode.  “We <strong><em>never go out!</em></strong>  I never meet new people!  I don’t mean people to fuck, I mean just <strong><em>meet new people!</em></strong>  New couples!  New singles!  New married people!  Anybody!”</p><p>“Oh,” reflects Mark.  His expression darkens.  “Well, is that why you turned off the sex?”</p><p>Have I been insulted?  “Whaddya mean?” I growl.</p><p>“When’s the last time you and I had sex?” Mark demands.</p><p>“Not that long ago,” I grumble.  “I mean, probably last-“</p><p>“<strong><em>When?</em></strong>” Mark demands, folding his arms over his chest.  “Like, what was the specific occasion?”</p><p>I wipe away my tears, thinking.  “Um…”  We had that quickie, last…  well, last…</p><p>“Christmas!” Mark informs me.  “Remember?  You were my ‘<em>present?</em>’”</p><p>Ah.  Ah shit, he’s right.  That was… four month ago?</p><p>“When you stopped getting interested in sex, I figured you weren’t feeling loved or appreciated,” Mark scowls.  “But that wasn’t it.  You were just waiting for an excuse to date someone else.”</p><p>“What?  Fuck you!” I blurt out.</p><p>“Its true,” Mark flings back.</p><p>I’m almost about to hurl a truly ugly insult back.  But I stop.  Take a breath.  Look Mark in the eye.</p><p>“I didn’t realize its been months since we had sex,” I tell him plainly.</p><p>Mark doesn’t say anything.</p><p>So I continue.  I tell him:  “I thought… you were taking me for granted.  And, like I said, I want to meet new people.  Socially.”</p><p>Those words hang in the air.</p><p>Mark lets out a slow breath.  He seems to deflate.  “I was hypnotized, only once,” he admits.</p><p>I blink.  I didn’t know this.</p><p>“Spring Break, junior year,” Mark explains.  “My frat bros and I went to Vegas.  We blew off too much money on poker, so we looked for a cheap alternative for entertainment.  And there was a hypnotist guy performing in the casino.”</p><p>“So you went,” I guess.  “You volunteered.”</p><p>Mark nods.</p><p>“What the hypnotist make you do?” I can’t help asking.</p><p>Mark shakes his head quickly.  “I can’t tell you,” he says quickly.  “Like… I’m still embarrassed.  But while I was hypnotized, I totally remember feeling like I had no control of myself.  I had to do everything the guy said.”</p><p>I study Mark’s eyes.  Suddenly, I am torn between hope and dread.  He is watching me carefully.</p><p>“You know, in screenwriting,” he says carefully, “when you have a character with internal needs, an old trick is to get them drunk.  When they’re drunk, characters will do crazy things to satisfy their needs.  Maybe the same is true with you.  Only you got hypnotized instead of drunk.”</p><p>“Are you… mad at me?” I whisper.</p><p>Mark shakes his head.  “Maybe you have needs that the <span class="u">Surf Patrol</span> guy exploited,” he says quietly.  “And maybe I have needs you couldn’t see.  Any maybe we couldn’t have talked all of this out, long ago.”</p><p>My heart soars.  <strong><em>Mark forgives me?</em></strong>  I scarcely dare to hope.</p><p>“But,” Mark puts up a warning finger, “total honesty between us from now on, okay?”</p><p>“I want to go to parties,” I say rapidly.  “Go out Monday nights.  And on the weekends.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Mark nods.  “And I-“</p><p>“I’ll suck your cock,” I promise.  “Or fuck you anyway you want.”</p><p>“What I want,” Mark tells me, “is for us to fuck each other.”  He offers me a sad smile.  “And I won’t eat your grilled cheese from the middle no more.”</p><p>A swell of gratitude and love wells up inside me.  You know, how many men would be willing to forgive their hypnotized, slutty girlfriend after a confession like this?</p><p>I’m lucky indeed.</p><p>As I throw my arms around Mark’s neck, he hugs me right back.  I suddenly my girl Kat’s sweet singing voice in my head:</p><p>
  <em>You give me that kinda love</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That takes me beyond and above</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know I can't get enough of</em>
</p><p>
  <em>…you…</em>
</p><p>**** **** ****</p>
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